


Rat the Bastard

by AliNasweter



Series: It All Started With a Rat [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur is Going Through Some Hard Times, Chapter 5 and 6, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Charles, POV Charlotte Balfour, Protective Charles Smith, Protective Charlotte Balfour, Red Dead Redemption 2 Spoilers, Soft Charles, Spoilers, Worried Charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:41:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24554059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliNasweter/pseuds/AliNasweter
Summary: The third and the last part. Charlotte had hoped for them both to come back to her. She knew she should have been more careful (or specific) about what she wished for. Once again, Charles and Charlotte unite to fight for Arthur's life.The ending of the game happened, but this time, Arthur wasn't alone.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan & Charlotte Balfour, Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Charles Smith & Charlotte Balfour
Series: It All Started With a Rat [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1667326
Comments: 15
Kudos: 82





	Rat the Bastard

**Author's Note:**

> You beautiful, beautiful people. Thank you so much for your kind words. This Rat series got me into the writing part of the fandom and I was very worried about messing it up.
> 
> If you notice any big mistakes, I'll be glad if you point them out for me. I do struggle with English when writing, but I try my best. Thank you for your kudos and such wonderful reviews. Made me happy every time.

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night, no crows were laughing at her dread, not even the rat had the audacity to make some noise.

Sound of hooves, heavy breaths. Limping and stumbling, but no curses or groans, nothing, nothing at all. Only the heaving of the horse, then a haunted look in eyes she had only ever seen as calm and collected, worried or mildly annoyed, those expressive eyes that were in no way ashamed of whatever was in them. She ran out onto her porch, not even reaching for her gun, knowing deep in her gut that she wouldn’t need it. Her heart was hammering in her chest, a terrified little bird throwing himself against the bars of his cage. Her hands started trembling when she noticed the way Arthur’s head lolled to the side. There were no mumbles, no curses, no cries of pain.

And then Charles, ever that stoic man who now seemed only a second from bursting into tears. His eyes were all _wrong_ and she didn’t even try to rack her brain for any better words, knowing there were simply none that could make the look in his eyes justice.

It was all so terribly quiet, unbecomingly so. There was no panic, no loud noises, no hushing whispers. Everything was happening too fast and too quietly and Charlotte was almost glad for it, as she wouldn’t be able to speak even if she wanted to, the big lump in her throat cutting off her voice.

Arthur slid off the horse, wordlessly, soundlessly, not even with a breath of complaint, and Charles took the weight, his knees buckling only slightly. She had never thought him possible to look like this, so ragged and beaten and yet, with no visible injury. His clothes were bloodied and she knew it wasn’t his, but her gut seized in fear when she realized what could happen if Charles had been injured as well and Arthur’s blood got into the wound-

There were blood and sickness in the air, and mud and sweat, there was exhaustion and fear and guilt.

She didn’t try and prepare the things Charles would surely ask for in a few seconds. She knew her shaking hands would make her useless, so she got her rifle and stood by the window, watching the quiet night while Charles behind her back gathered all the things she wouldn’t be able to find in her own house. She didn’t know what had happened, if Arthur was dying, if he was shot or stabbed or beaten, if the illness got so much worse. She hadn’t seen him properly but considering Charles’ face… she could take a guess.

By the god above, she would shoot anyone just looking at this house, even if it was just a rabbit. Nobody was going in or coming close to them, not on her watch. Charles didn’t even look at her, he didn’t check the door, the windows, the shack behind the house. He didn’t hide the horse, as busy as he was with manhandling his friend.

Charlotte looked over her shoulder, then she got out of the house, taking the mare by the reins and leading her behind the house, not risking having her hitched on her property. She led her deeper into the woods, hitching her, shushing, leaving her by the trees, and promising a victorious return with some sweets for her trouble. The mare had something akin to panic in her eyes, her breath still too heavy. She was shocked by her rider's behavior, not used to him pushing her limits.

Charlotte ran back home and locked the door.

The rat behind the sink squeaked, terrified, so used to only Charlotte’s empty threats and occasional good-humored remarks about its’ planned demise.

Charles didn’t look up from his work. His moves were quick and sure but there was unusual uneasiness in them, as if the hands were doing the work they were taught to, but the brain was thinking about something different.

The hands were preparing for healing and the brain was bracing itself for mourning.

She went into Arthur’s room, lit the lantern, carefully avoiding the bloodied shirt on the ground. Arthur was awake, looking around the room, his eyes not really landing on anything, not even her. She swallowed her tears at seeing Arthur’s, was it the pain, was it the fear, she wondered, brushing them away with the tips of her fingers. He flinched at the touch, the wild look in his eyes sent tremors down her back. She hushed him, brushed the hair from his forehead, the gesture taking her back to the time when he had been laying with his head on her chest, seeing things out of her reach, and maybe out of reach of anyone living.

“You have to come through,” she told him, gulping, her voice wavering. Charles was preparing the same tea that had soothed Arthur’s throat before, and she knew he was doing it just so his hands could do something useful, something that would make him feel like there was a way out of this, like there was still hope.

***

No amount of miracle poultices or tea could heal Arthur, but he wasn’t ready to let go, not when his arms were still throbbing painfully from the strain of carrying his dying friend, cradling him to his chest while pushing Taima to ride faster, faster – away, just _away_. He hadn’t brought him here to just let him die. Charlotte didn’t deserve this. He was by no means a good man – Charles never thought otherwise – and yet he had dared to hope that this one little good thing in his life, that it could hold for a while, that if he tried enough, he could hold it together and the law or the Pinkertons or Micah or even Dutch, they all could pry it out of his dead cold hands.

He stopped crushing the herbs, used the sink for support, let his head hang between his strained shoulders. Big palms covered the creases on the cabinet, some forgotten leaves, drops of water, and blood. He should stop being a coward, he thought, fists clenching. He should go to Arthur and free Charlotte from having to watch him suffer. She had to go through this just a few weeks ago and Charles was _really_ a monster for doing this to her – but he couldn’t think of any place more welcoming and safer than this one, and he remembered the look Charlotte had given him the last time he had been here: _I mean it,_ the look had said. She wasn’t just being polite, and he could tell by the way she’d smiled at them, laughed at Arthur’s stupid jokes and Charles’ bearlike grunts. There was something about her, something he thought he had forgotten.

His mother’s soft hands and her quiet soothing voice, her dark eyes always full of love. Her hands never aiming to hurt, always there to support, to hold, to caress.

He had allowed himself to care for the gang, in his own way. He had felt appreciated, valued, knowing his skills could earn him the keep. He had enjoyed the seemingly lost ability to sleep and not fear for his life. There had been soft grumbles from Javier and the Reverend’s mutterings, he had cherished the occasional bark of laughter when there had been the times where laughter was still a part of their lives. He had enjoyed watching John nodding off by the campfire, Arthur scribbling in his journal, Hosea looking at them both with a look Charles had never seen on Dutch’s face.

He’d acquired something close to a family. Yet, he had the advantage of not seeing things through Arthur’s eyes. It was painful to lose them, but he could live with it.

Charles didn’t know what to do with his hands after everything had calmed down a bit after the fiasco in Saint Denis, after they all realized that Hosea wasn’t coming back, and maybe not even Dutch, Javier and… he had wanted to leave back then, reading about the sunken ship. But there was a family that had taken him in and that Arthur had been willing to die for, and they were lost and scared. He couldn’t leave them to it.

He’d felt dread at the silence that had overtaken the camp after Sean’s death. He’d felt nothing but grief remembering Lenny and his never-ending questions, so wise beyond his years, so deserving of something much better than what his life had given him. Charles had never been close to any of the dead but he had _felt_ their deaths.

Even after all that, he could imagine going his own way once more. He’d known back in Saint Denis, he’d known long before that. The anger burning in his veins had been eating him alive, making him grit his teeth and want to burn Dutch’s tent to the ground along with his manipulative talks. He had seen Eagle Flies, so willing to fight back, to kill and die for a cause that was long lost.

He had imagined young Arthur in his place back then, and maybe it was just a stupid thought that had not a single drop of truth or reason behind it. But he could hear Dutch talking to a fifteen year old boy, already rough around the edges, with his hat still too big for his head, skittish and untrusting like an abused dog. He could imagine the velvety voice finding its way through Arthur’s barriers, and remaining behind them for years, protected like a king in an impregnable fortress that was Arthur’s loyalty.

Dutch had planted a bomb under his own throne while looking for a crack in the walls and Arthur was now paying the price.

A wheeze followed by a coughing fit coming out of the small room on his right brought him back to reality. His eyes were burning from staring at his hands for too long. He finished the tea and the salve, both so strong that they completely overcame his senses and for a moment, he couldn’t feel the sticky blood on his long clean hands, he couldn’t feel the panicked thumping of his long calm heart, or smell the death that seemed to take a small step back at his effort to fight her.

Charlotte was like Arthur in a way, loyal to a fault, and Charles was worried that it would break her, too. Where else could he go with Arthur in this state, though? Rains Fall had a whole tribe to take care of, couldn’t afford to hide them. And Charles was even more unwilling to put the tribe in danger on their behalf. There were children and women-

Looking over his shoulder at the closed door, he pondered for a few seconds. Was this taking advantage of Charlotte’s hospitality? Would she throw them out if she knew what kind of people were after them?

There were children and women in the tribe and Charlotte had a look in her eyes that reminded him of his father. She had been a person who had nothing to lose until Arthur found his way into her life. She took watches, naturally falling into the role that she’d never had to fill before, clutching the rifle, determination in her eyes. If there was ever a hint of fear in her eyes, he would take Arthur and risk the law again. But Charlotte wasn’t scared. Their return sparked a fire in her and she stood strong and ready, holding on hope where Charles was losing it. She reminded him of Sadie, only not as full of spite, not as thirsty for revenge, not as angry at the world. Her hands were shaking where Sadie’s were still, her fingers didn’t look almost normal coated in blood. She wasn’t a ghost of her past self, not yet.

He came into the room with his hands full, the strong scent of herbs following him. He shut the door with his back and stayed by the wall, watching Charlotte sitting on the corner of the bed, once again taking care of the man they both cherished. He knew they both loved Arthur differently. None of them realized the partnership they had acquired over their fight for Arthur’s life at first, but now it became fairly obvious.

Charlotte stood up, smoothed her skirt, and looked over her shoulder at the sound of the closing door, ready for her night watch. Her eyes fell on Charles who remained standing by the wall, looking like a child expecting a slap on the wrist. A small spark of annoyance, like a breeze ruffling a little bird’s feathers.

She could _hear_ the apology forming in Charles’ head – _sorry for using you_ , maybe – so she turned completely around to face him, trying to look as intimidating as she could, putting her hands on her hips.

“I swear to god if you say it, I _will_ shoot you,” she hissed forcefully, still trying to whisper in spite of the knowledge that it would take much more than that to wake Arthur up. Charles didn’t wince or shrink back, he just met her eyes, steady and strong once again, and she wasn’t ready for that. She wanted to argue and yank the nonsense he was thinking out of his head, she didn’t expect the amount of sadness she would get in return. She began to understand Arthur’s inability to look this man in the eyes. It felt like he could see her soul, connect the dots she didn’t even begin to notice. And then he gave her that little smile she had grown so fond of and a soft “thank you”.

“For threatening to shoot you,” she blurted, not willing to back down so quickly, bristled at the way Charles seemed to calm her only with his presence. She decided she would let him get away this time. Charlotte remembered his long-suffering looks when dealing with Arthur being difficult, and she could tell that he would only see her as a small child throwing a tantrum if she didn’t back down. “Do I need to expect company? So I can get ready,” she added, her tone clearly stating it was not biscuits or tea she had in mind.

“The rat still lives,” said the bastard, with another curve of lips, the smile more in his voice than on his face. He didn’t need to hide like Arthur always did. He could keep his face motionless if he wanted – _perfect for deadpan humor_ , she thought. Arthur couldn’t control himself like that, always hiding under his hat, always bowing his head and avoiding eyes of whoever he was talking to.

“Well that remains a challenge for another time,” she retorted, proud, chin held high. “I can shoot a man, though. I can shoot the bottles without problems now.”

“The bottles don’t shoot back,” he replied, solemn once again. He was worried enough for them both. Arthur ended up with _two_ mother hens, she thought and swallowed the laugh bubbling in her throat. A welcome change, being the one who was held back, not the one who did the holding.

“We’ll take watches then. I can always pull the act of a crazy woman who shoots first and asks questions later.” He narrowed his eyes at her, a question, but not a doubt, and she allowed herself a victorious smirk. He wouldn’t get any more than that. That was a story she was keeping for Arthur, too, and by the god, he would hear it. She couldn’t wait for the laugh he would let out at that. She then took the rifle and left the room, refusing to look at Arthur once more, guilty at the thought that she wanted to get one last look before he stopped breathing. She wanted to hear the laugh and she would get it or there would be hell to pay.

***

The first night, she peeked into the room to see them both completely out of it, Arthur more unconscious than asleep, breathing heavily, wheezing, and Charles with his head on the pillow, slouched next to the bed, fingers wrapped around Arthur’s wrist. Charlotte knew that Charles wouldn’t allow himself to sleep through Arthur’s death. Even though she could see no signs of life on him, she trusted Charles enough to not start crying at the sight, already mourning what was not yet lost.

The second night, she took her blanket and came into the room. She saw Charles open his mouth and only glared at him. So he reached out his hand to take the blanket, sheepishly, carefully, only for her to clutch it close to her chest, shaking her head.

“No. That’s for me. You two are taking the main bedroom. You need to be close and I am not letting you sleep on the floor like a dog,” she said with such force that Charles, a wise man, didn’t even try to argue. He let out a small chuckle at her quiet “even a dog wouldn’t sleep on the floor in this damn house”. She got paid back for her trouble when she looked into the bedroom later and saw them both sleeping comfortably side by side. Charles’ eyes were not so dim the next morning, his movements were not so sluggish and he even gave her a smile she had been waiting for. They would be alright.

The third night, the cries began. Charlotte sat in the kitchen, palms wrapped around her favorite mug, the tea already cold and forgotten. Her knuckles were white, the mug was barely holding its own. She heard hushed whispers, some humming, maybe words, maybe just a sound. She heard names she had already been acquainted with. It was always _Dutch_ , always _John_. She had no idea who they were to Arthur, never sure how to feel about them. Were they dead? Were they the ones who did this to Arthur? Were they loved by him, or hated? Was he mourning them, calling for them? She couldn’t tell. There was only one emotion whenever she heard Arthur’s voice – heartbreak. That, she knew, could mean anything at all.

Fever made Arthur tossing around in the bed, wildly enough to challenge Charles’ strong hold on him. Charlotte thought there could be nothing worse. She was wrong.

The morning came and Arthur was so exhausted he couldn’t even breathe. Soaked through with sweat and tears, his eyes unseeing once more, his skin clammy and hot, too hot.

Not cold, not like Cal, she reminded herself. That was good, right? There was still some fight in him, eating him alive, but it was there.

“Just shoot me, will ya,” he said, so unexpectedly lucid that she exchanged looks with Charles, startled and horrified. He didn’t roll his eyes, too heartbroken at hearing the words, too exhausted, so she did it for them both along with a nearly honest sigh.

“Arthur. I still need you to shoot that rat,” she said, voice calm and collected as if he were a child asking for another story before bed, and she the ever-patient mother.

“Oh,” he breathed out, serious, a thoughtful look on his face. Then he looked at her and she almost believed that he could actually see her. “Hope you gave ‘im the name. S’fitting. So fitting. God. T’was a joke. I didn’t think he’d…” a coughing fit overcame him and he started heaving. No tea or poultices could ever heal him again. No words could soothe the pain, no caresses could brush the tears of pain away for long enough to let the cheeks dry.

She went out into the kitchen again, relieved at the sound of scrambling under the sink. She smiled at the cabinet, her eyes welling up with tears. She poured herself another cup and took a pen and her journal, one of her most beloved possessions along with her wedding ring and her mother’s bracelet.

On the fourth day, Charles’ shoulders were not so tense anymore. She took her strength from that. The rat got used to three people in the house again, always quieting when Charles’ incredibly light steps came to its senses. It was not so careful around Charlotte, her stomping shoes doing nothing to threaten the creature. Not a hunter’s steps, it probably thought, nibbling on the cabinet’s unstable legs.

On the fifth day, Arthur had a few sips of the herbal tea only she had been drinking all this time. After a few long seconds and minutes and hours, there was no heaving, no vomiting. Charlotte didn’t dare to cry tears of relief. But the air cleared a little, she sat on the porch, scribbling in her journal, occasionally going to the mare, talking to her, assuring her that Charles didn’t forget about her.

When she woke up on the sixth day, it was raining heavily, the sky so dark she could tell there would be no sun for a few days. She wrapped herself in her blanket and listened to the rain. No other sound could be heard.

In the evening, she could hear two voices. She smiled into her pillow.

The next morning, she met Charles in the kitchen, sitting at the table, watching the ever-busy cabinet. That was the longest she had seen him anywhere but by Arthur’s side. His face was completely blank and she stopped in her tracks, breath caught in her throat.

Charles looked up at her, gave her a smile and a nod. Charlotte let out a long breath, sat down next to him and took his large hands into hers, squeezed. Merely an exhausted man she had seen, not a broken one.

“It’s not over yet,” he said, so quietly it could have been a whisper, “but he’ll survive.” She nodded, too overwhelmed to actually say anything to that. “It wouldn’t be possible without you, again. I promise I’ll do everything in my power to not do this to you again in the near future,” he muttered, his thumbs caressing her trembling hands.

“Did you tell him?” she asked, quietly, taking advantage of Charles’ openness, vulnerability. She didn’t meet his eyes. She was brave enough to ask the right questions, not to have her soul stripped bare.

“Do I need to?” he replied with the soft question, and it was a good answer, honestly, a fair one. She figured two men like them wouldn’t really need the words. It was foolish of her to ask that in the first place, considering the week she’d gone through with them. “He’s not as dense as he likes to pretend, Charlotte,” he added, surprising her with the use of her name. “He knows.” That was all that really mattered, wasn’t it.

“Took him long enough,” she scoffed playfully, aiming for another small grin. “You were so embarrassingly obvious,” she added, a glint of mischief in her eyes. When she looked up again, she wasn’t disappointed. She got much more than just a curve of lips this time. Charles avoided her eyes for the first time since she had known him and her heart swelled in happiness.

***

Arthur was sitting in bed when she saw him again. She made it her ultimate goal to look as if she had never doubted him for a second. So she only raised her eyebrows, not really trying to hide her smile.

“Feeling _that_ good, are we?”

“Well. I had motivation. I promise that once I am on my feet, I’ll shoot the rat for you.” His voice held a dark promise that was really too ominous to be addressed to an obnoxious animal.

“Ahh,” she cleared her throat a bit, looking away. “There’s no need, truly.”

“You got it?” he almost sprang out of bed at that, trying to sit up higher and failing. There was a childish joy, his eyes clearing up. Charles frowned at the movement, staying still only through sheer force of will. She almost shook her head in disbelief. A dying man became a little excited boy in a second or less. And although she almost felt bad for disappointing him, she decided to go through this little confession of hers.

“No, but… I don’t… ah, I…”

Arthur, noticing the suspicious lack of eloquence in her speech, was taken aback.

“You would miss the bastard, wouldn’t you,” he guessed softly, with sympathy, an act of mercy from a man who had gone through the treachery of having an animal grow on him many times before.

“I would miss the bastard,” she admitted, defeated, and Charles only sighed.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know about Micah, but I guess he couldn't really use his legs after the final encounter. Or his face, for that matter. Who knows. Charles isn't one to brag. 
> 
> Feedback very, very appreciated.


End file.
